


Kettering

by hailtherandom



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-05
Updated: 2013-07-05
Packaged: 2017-12-17 18:22:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/870570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hailtherandom/pseuds/hailtherandom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Very short drabble about Will's thoughts about Abigail.<br/>Based on the song "Kettering" by the Antlers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kettering

**Author's Note:**

> This is not very good but I'm in a weird mood and I don't care much so have some overly poetic Thoughts.

He sits at her bedside, fingers threaded through hers, and his pulse beats in time with her heart monitor.

She's been asleep for days, edging on weeks, and Will knows that it's for the best, because no one should have to wake up to what Abigail will wake up to, and certainly no one would ever want to.

Three weeks in and Will visits Abigail Hobbs's bedside every day or two, sits with her for hours after a long day of teaching, and watches the synthetic rise and fall of her chest, the occasional dart of her eyes under pale lids.

He tastes responsibility, longing, on his tongue, and he swallows it down with air.

Abigail sleeping is long, slow glups of stale air, rehashing the same guilt and twisted affections over and over again. Stale with the repetitiveness, stale with the breath of Jack Crawford telling him to step away and Alana Bloom's voice winding around passages of the book by Abigail's bedside. Stale with the sound of heart monitors that confirm that Abigail Hobbs is alive. A survivor.

Abigail sleeping is gulps of stale air, but Abigail awake is pure electricity and ice to Will's system.

It's the same hospital bed, with the same heart monitor and the monotonous beeping - made slightly less monotonous every time Abigail gets stressed - but the air is alive with promise and conflict.

Will feels the slow crawl of sparks that ride up his spine the way Abigail's morphine drip trickles down and she slurs her words slightly. 

Will tightens his fist around live wires or sharp, biting words, conducted through the fierce glare of her eyes and compounded by the dark shadow lurking in the background, with its three piece suits and lilting accents.

Will feels the slight pinpricks of sweat when Abigail rages around him, when he can see the anger in her pale irises that can't escape - rage not against him, not against Hannibal, but the way she was forced to cling to life with hands slippery with the blood of others.

 

He stares at her image on the ceiling, on nights when proper sleep eludes him and he sits across from her, a table made of victims and antlers separating them, and Will supposes that it's apt.

 

He knows, and she knows that.

He knows, and he knows that knowing should send him running to Alana, to Beverly, to Jack, to anyone. He knows, and he knows that he should turn her in.

But he also knows that he can't do that, not ever. He will never go to Jack and present Abigail in handcuffs and watch her be led into the building that he knows he himself will one day inhabit, one way or the other.

Will knows that his silence will save Abigail, and he knows that he can't ever give that up.


End file.
